The Cares of a Family Man
by Crow's Talon
Summary: Gerald Crane hadn't always been the Phobia Killer.


**Disclaimer:** _None of the characters in this story are mine, I am not associated with their owners in any way, and this is a non-profit work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended._

 _ **Trigger Warning** : Character death._

* * *

 _Is this the sum of you?_  
 _Is it all nought?_  
 _Cold, metal-cold?_  
 _Are you all told_  
 _Here, iron-wrought?_  
 _Is_ this _what's become of you?_

 _\- The Bitterness of Death,_ D. H. Lawrence

Things had been different before Karen died. Clinging to the increasingly faint memories of love and happiness were the only things that kept Gerald Crane alive. They kept him alive even as his love became as violent and destructive as the fire that haunted his nightmares, corrupting him and everyone close to him. He knew, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself otherwise, that Karen herself would be disgusted and horrified by the things he did in her memory. The man Karen Keeny married wasn't a murderer. Gerald knew that he was one now.

Even now he didn't particularly enjoy killing people. He didn't glory in murder, or at least that's what he said to make himself feel better. It was merely the means to an end. In the beginning he asked himself how he reached this point, how he could do this to people who trusted him, even to his son. Sometimes Jonathan, concerned but ever admiring, would ask him if he was all right. He could see the worry and doubt in his son's pale face, paler by the day, and he never had an answer. The fear and guilt tore him up inside - fear for his son, knowledge that he was tearing their broken family to shreds, unspoken shame over the blood on his hands. Sometimes he dug up a picture of Karen, or the two of them before the fire, to try and take himself back when they were still a normal family. When Karen was alive, he was a proud husband and father, and Jonathan a cheerful, innocent little boy.

Jonathan was a smart boy. He probably had his suspicions. Whatever he said, Gerald was not all right. Someone who was "all right" would never kill an innocent man in cold blood. Even Gerald himself, as far gone as he was, knew that.

The Gerald Crane in the pictures he looked at would never have imagined himself becoming one more of Gotham's urban monsters, a prowling killer who preyed on the terrified and the helpless. He would have hated himself even more than he already did.

He still remembered how they met. He was a proud rebel in his youth, clad in a tight black jacket and screeching down the Georgia roads on his old motorcycle. Gerald was always an outsider in Arlen. His Gotham accent made him stick out, even more than his dark clothes and rough manner, and he had no shortage of admirers. His colleagues at Gotham High never knew about _that_ part of his life, much to his relief. He never thought of his college diploma much. School was one more thing he did because he had to. He only graduated to prove to his parents he could. The last thing he imagined back then was slowing down, getting a job, and starting a family. He especially didn't see himself becoming a biology teacher.

That was before he met Karen, of course. She was a rebel, too, and he admired her for that.

Karen Keeny was from an important family in Georgia, although the line had decayed since then. He wasn't attracted to her family connections. The Keenys' wealth had disappeared a long time ago, ruining the remaining family members in more ways than one. Gerald knew the local stories about Karen's grandmother Mary, a religious fanatic infamous in town for her meanness. Karen told him a few of her own stories about Mary Keeny, from her childhood, and his disinterest turned into horror.

Karen's mother wasn't much better. She reminded Gerald unpleasantly of his parents: neglectful, more concerned about themselves than their own child, willing to turn their backs on someone who needed love and attention. Neither of them thought much of Karen courting men. Gerald complimented her on standing up to them. She thanked him, and he felt an unfamiliar-but-pleasant warmth inside him. That was when the Heartbreaker of Arlen fell in love.

They needed each other back then, Karen teaching him about love and Gerald staying with her when she needed him. With her home life, she went to him a lot. Their love made her strong, and they made plans to leave Georgia, start a family, and find a chance at happiness. Karen told him that, if they were going to live together, both of them needed jobs.

"You have a Gotham University diploma, Gerald," he remembered her saying. "That's a good start. What kind of job do you think you could use it for?"

Gerald thought, shaking his head after a few moments. "My major's in biology. I can't really think of anything we can do with it here. Maybe we could move into my family's place in Gotham. Come to think of it, that would get us away from your family, too."

Karen gave a bitter laugh, but Gerald could hear the pain behind it. "That's not a bad idea. How about you come with me when I break the news to Mom? I don't think she'll take the news very well." Gerald was as afraid of Marion Keeny's temper as Karen was, but she convinced him that they could confront her together. First, however, he'd have to show Karen that he was prepared to start a serious relationship. No more beer, no more women. That wasn't before several glorious nighttime rides on the roads of Georgia, Gerald wearing his old bike helmet with Karen at his side.

He kept his promise. He left his gang, put new effort into finding a paying job outside Arlen, and even stopped drinking. He stood firm beside her when she confronted her mother, and they made it very clear in the face of Marion's rage that neither one was coming back to Arlen again. They were going to marry.

Gerald didn't remember what Marion's reply was. He didn't particularly care to. Marion Keeny and her elderly mother were among the very few people in the world Gerald Crane despised with all of his heart outside of himself. He would have far preferred to harvest them in the place of some former colleague or civilian who he held no real grudge against.

He didn't _hate_ Adam Jodowsky or Gennaro Marx, even while he terrorized and killed them. They had, in better days, almost been friends. Jodowsky even offered Gerald coffee back when they were on that support group together. Jodowsky simply had something Gerald needed and fit the parameters for the required experiment. It wasn't anything personal.

That was one of the things Gerald told himself to keep his conscience quiet. He wasn't as much a monster as the rest. He wasn't like Falcone or Moroni, starting bloody gang wars for power's sake. He didn't murder for thrills or for pleasure. Gerald hated those people as much as anyone else would. The money of his prey didn't interest him. He took only what he needed for his work. What he did was for the good of the human species, not only himself. Surely two or three lives were a worthy price for a world free of fear?

He wasn't a bad man. Was he?

Gerald's justifications felt weak from the start, and he hurled himself deeper into his work to take his mind off them. He could still hear Adam begging for Gerald not to kill him, joining Karen's screams in the fire. If it was Marion he was torturing, on the other hand, he would have enjoyed frightening her, with no guilt whatsoever. Even better, she would have helped him face his own fears. Poetic justice at its finest.

Not that the identity of the test subjects made any real difference. Adrenal glands were adrenal glands, after all.

They bought a plane ticket with Gerald's saved money and from selling the motorcycle. Once they were back in Gotham and settled in the Crane house, Gerald found himself a position as a biology teacher at Gotham High. He was never one of the most outspoken people on faculty, but back then he had a handful of acquaintances who he didn't mind a quick cup of tea in the teachers' lounge with. Marx was one of them. Gerald liked him. He was also the one who asked Gerald what happened to his wife, and why he wasn't talking anymore.

On deeper thought, that might have been why Gerald was willing to kill him. He didn't like being reminded of what he lost. Back then, however, Gennaro Marx and Gerald Crane were colleagues, and Gerald would have rather died than kill anybody.

Gerald was at his proudest when his son was born. Jonathan Crane had his mother's dark brown hair and his father's fascination with science, something Gerald encouraged from a very young age. Jonathan was Gerald's lab assistant long before their experiments turned dark and bloody. They worked together on everything from soda volcanoes to Jonathan's projects for Gotham High's science fair. Gerald cheered him on when he came home with a blue ribbon on his shirt. In turn, Jonathan idolized his father. He went to Gerald for hugs whenever bullies at school beat him up, or simply for help with homework. He never was that close to Karen. They loved one another, of course, but Jonathan always had more in common with his father. In turn, Gerald was always there to protect his son.

That was probably why he never questioned what Gerald told him to do, no matter what, even though Gerald could see the confusion in his son's eyes these days. Jonathan didn't understand the meaning or value of their work. It might have even frightened him. Gerald explained to his son that their work was to help him, too, so he wouldn't have to live with fear of failure or shame. Jonathan nodded, but his eyes were still clouded. He simply followed along out of a sense of duty and love, not because he truly believed what his father said. He didn't realize that Gerald's words were just as much to convince himself. Even with his son beside him, Gerald felt utterly alone.

He honestly would have felt more comfortable if Jonathan had outright refused.

Even after playing the day out in his mind for months after the accident, he still wasn't sure exactly what started the fire. There was a chance it was a random accident. There was a greater chance it was preventable, something subtle, and if so Gerald could have stopped it. Maybe someone left a broken lamp on too long. Maybe one of the wires snaking through the cluttered Crane house was frayed. All he knew was that one night he returned home from work to the sound of a fire alarm and the acrid stench of smoke. His first thought was his family, and he bolted into the house to find them. It wasn't the smartest thing he could have done, but he wasn't ashamed of that. It was a human response. He was ashamed of what happened next.

He found Jonathan huddled beside the stairs, instinctively covering his face. He pointed to the steps when Gerald asked him where Mom was. Karen was trapped in their bedroom. She must have heard him come in, because he could hear her screaming his name upstairs.

"Gerald? Is that you? Open the door, Gerald!"

Gerald ordered Jonathan out before he charged up the stairs. The door was not locked, but Gerald could feel the heat emanating from inside when he grabbed the knob. The fire was within the room, where Karen was. If Gerald opened the door, he would have died, too. At the time, he thought there was nothing he could have done. Gerald decided to make sure Jonathan was safe outside instead. He tried not to listen to Karen's screams as the fire burned. He made the only choice he was in the position to make. Karen would have wanted him to protect their son if it was between the two of them. He made it out alive, and so did Jonathan. He couldn't have saved both of them. He couldn't have.

But maybe, a voice whispered in Gerald's mind, he _could_.

With Jonathan hugging him so tightly he could feel the boy's heart pound, Gerald couldn't bear to tell him what happened to his mother. He didn't have to. Jonathan was able to figure out on his own that Karen Keeny would never come home again. The two hardly ever discussed it. Jonathan probably did it to spare Gerald the pain. Gerald didn't like talking about it.

The Crane home was gutted in the fire, and Gerald's pay as a teacher was just enough to repair the damages. What little was left of Karen was buried in the front yard and marked by a simple gravestone.

Gerald sat by that gravestone for hours upon hours, talking to Karen and telling her that he did everything in his power. He lay in their bedroom alone, leaving a space as if Karen were beside him. He began to imagine that Jonathan knew about his cowardice, and saw accusation in his son's piercing eyes. There were times when Gerald stayed home from work, only calling in and saying that he wasn't feeling up for class. His coworkers became concerned the third time they had to hire a substitute. He wrote a hurried paper about his belief that fear was a weakness, and the possibility of curing it. He didn't go into specifics. He had some idea of what he would need to do, but he considered those methods unspeakable back then.

On the other hand, he couldn't bear the torment any longer. Karen appeared in his dreams, her beautiful face melting in the flames like wax, pleading with him for help. He was never able to say a word. His apologies and excuses died in his throat. When he woke up, he woke in a cold sweat, body trembling violently, Karen's voice still vibrating in his skull. He went in his office and sat until it passed, even ignoring Jonathan. His son's concern felt like a blade in his chest.

He was sure that his coworkers at Gotham High would have held a charity fund to help him rebuild his house if he asked, but he could do it himself, and that wouldn't have fixed the real damage. Many of them did notice that Gerald Crane had changed. Marx asked him what was wrong. He remembered the conversation as if it was yesterday.

"Hello, Gerry. I hope you're doing all right. You've just been...quiet lately. More than usual, and you've started staying home from work. Some of us were worried." Gerald could hear his concern. Marx was worried about him.

Gerald only sighed, sipping a cup of coffee. "What's it to you?"

"We heard about Karen. You know, that she died. I'm truly sorry for your loss. Everyone is. That's why no one's tried to fire you over this. We all understand how you must feel."

Startled, Gerald almost gagged on his drink. "Who told you?" He didn't say the other things on his mind. _You know how I feel? Do you? I just lost my home and my wife, and you tell me_ you _understand how I feel?_

"Oh. No one. I just heard around town. What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

It took every ounce of self-control Gerald had not to lunge at Gennaro. The man's tone was genuinely concerned. He was trying to help, in his way. All the same, the mere topic made Gerald bristle. What happened to Karen was none of Gennaro Marx's business, whatever his intentions were.

Gerald lied to Gennaro, telling him that Karen died in a car accident. It slipped off his tongue more easily than expected. He hoped that Gennaro would accept his answer and not research the matter further. The house fire was in the back pages of their local paper if the English teacher chose to look. Gennaro seemed satisfied with the lie. Maybe he just realized that Gerald wasn't in the mood for discussion. In either case, he didn't bring it up again.

He didn't discuss his personal life in any capacity again until he learned about the phobia support group in the paper. Adam Jodowsky was the first there to give "Todd" a warm welcome. He offered him a donut and coffee on the first day before telling the group about his phobia of heights. With the tools he needed finally available to him, Gerald finally set on a dark course of action. To cure fear, he needed the help of phobics, and here he was, a wolf in the sheepfold. Better yet, the sheep didn't suspect his intentions were anything but good. He hid his fangs well. Adam almost certainly didn't expect his friend Todd to ambush him several days later, turn that very phobia against him, and slice him open like a dead fish.

After Adam's murder, Gerald knew that he couldn't turn back even if he wanted to. Gotham had plenty of slime crawling in the streets, and Gerald was able to pay for the loyalty of a few street killers when he needed more muscle. He choked down his lingering disgust with them. The nature of his work went beyond personal qualms over methods. His son, although squeamish at first, was easily convinced to help him with his research and, later, to attack Gennaro in his own home. Jonathan's loyalty was stronger than his conscience.

His research was proceeding nicely, despite the odd hiccup. He would be finished soon. All the same, Gennaro Marx's death gave Gerald little peace of mind.

The police were on to him, so he needed to work quickly. He lost several test subjects to outside interference. His research was too valuable to be abandoned. He had come much too far to give up. A life without fear or shame was within his grasp.

It still wouldn't bring Karen back to his side. He imagined what she would think of him now if she knew what the man she loved had become.

He didn't know what he would do once he perfected his cure. There was still the matter of the GCPD. The test subjects who survived could lead the police right to his door. He didn't have the money or the influence to buy anyone off. Even if he killed the officers they sent, there would be more. He couldn't simply say he was done with killing and be accepted into society again. All the crocodile tears in the world wouldn't bring back the people he murdered. Thinking of them as _test subjects_ , not colleagues and friends, was the only way he could live with what he had done.

He was no longer Mr. Gerald Crane, father and husband. That Gerald Crane died in the fire along with Karen.

He was the Phobia Killer now.

His victims haunted him at night, asked him why he killed people who only showed him friendship and kindness. He saw Adam with the burns from a rope around his throat, Gennaro with a bleeding gash in his side. Their faces didn't seem angry with him, only disappointed. Karen turned her back on him in the flames, and Jonathan glared at him with fierce ice-blue eyes. He was unable to even beg for their forgiveness in his dreams. His eyes grew bloodshot, bags under them for lack of sleep.

Gerald knew that his goals weren't as pure as he pretended. For all his grand boasts of freeing humanity from fear, the simple truth was that his motives were selfish. Good people were dead and a boy lost his innocence because Gerald R. Crane was too cowardly to live with his shame. When Gerald told Jonathan that they were doing it for the species, he wasn't even fooling himself.

He carried out his research as if it was programmed into him, joyless and mechanical. He had gone too far to abandon the project. It was the only thing that made him feel something other than self-loathing and revulsion. He would do anything to get rid of the sickness in his heart. Even injecting Jonathan was little more than a desperate need for vindication that all this killing was to help _someone_ besides himself.

Injecting himself with his own fear cure, what he had done all of the killing _for_ , was only one last selfish attempt to run from his ghosts. The only mercy for him was that he became too reckless to remember that.

Even in his own mind, Gerald Crane was dead long before the Gotham police shot him down in full view of Karen's gravestone.


End file.
